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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184786">Goldeneye Flyaway</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronPagoda/pseuds/IronPagoda'>IronPagoda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>CrankGameplays - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Foster parent Mark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:28:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184786</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronPagoda/pseuds/IronPagoda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark finds an unwelcome package on his doorstep</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. First Day On The Job</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by the 'Mark and Ethan Are Now Fathers', here's Mark as an unwilling dad. Figured I'd stick with his point of view considering what happened to Ethan's baby in the video...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was raining that day, Mark remembers that much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been trying to decide if it was worth it to walk the dogs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On one hand, they could use the exercise; as could he. On the other, it was pouring hard enough to soak through any umbrella he could find.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of his county was feeling his predicament. Months of prayers for rain seemed to have been answered at once, resulting in one of the worst floods of the decade. He couldn’t even wallow in the dark, cloudy misery of a ruined morning with his girlfriend, but he hoped her week with her parents was faring better than his week alone with the storm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a resigned look towards the ever darkening clouds, Mark threw on his jacket with a grimace. Chica and Henry were happy, ecstatic even, and isn’t that what really mattered? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark tried to keep that in mind as he slogged through river-run sidewalks and picked up after his dogs with bags that were too thin for his liking. Both of his dogs were going to need a good drying off, they were weighed down with the water absorbed in their fluffy, golden coats. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This counts as a bath, right? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept to his regular route, counting off the landmarks as he went and trying to rush along his dogs at a jogging pace. The rain was blowing sideways in the gray, early morning light, making for a miserable time. Rounding the dented fire hydrant, Mark scrunched up his face at the odd sight on his porch. A large, white plastic bag had been left just under the awning, and was sitting innocuously on his front step.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of his meal deliveries were expected, and his Amazon package was delayed for another few days. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s odd, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought, approaching it all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Probably another misplaced package. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That was likely, for some godforsaken reason UPS liked to drop off parcels at </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>door, when they were really meant for the larger home across the street. Mark had definitely talked to them before, and, of course, they’d obviously ignored him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let his dogs sniff it first, it was only an old microsoft store bag. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please don’t be a bomb please don’t be a bomb-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry jerked his muzzle away from the bag hastily as a small cry escaped. Brows furrowed, Mark gingerly pulled apart the handles to get a better view inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was inside </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>did not belong to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wrapped up tight in what appeared to be an old hoodie, a pale baby stared back at Mark with an expression bordering on a screaming fit. The translucent color made the pale green eyes seem that much bigger, and they stared up at Mark with a neediness he didn’t want fixed on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked around quickly, but whoever had dropped it off was gone; all the tracks washed away in the torrential downpour. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Speaking of which… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a second thought, he pulled the crying bundle from the bag, bringing everything inside where it was much drier, and warmer. He rushed into the kitchen, letting the dogs run amok for the moment while he dealt with the frigid baby. The tuxedo themed onesie seemed awfully thin, and the poor kid was whimpering softly as Mark tucked him close and ran his hands briskly along the small body. “How long were you out there?” He asked softly. He hadn’t been gone long, hopefully the kid didn’t catch anything in the shitty weather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inanimate contents of the bag went on the counter, and resting the infant between his bicep and chest, Mark grabbed a towel from the clean laundry pile he had yet to sort. Once the baby was wrapped up tight, he quieted enough for Mark to scrounge through the inanimate contents of the bag. The items were measly, only a few care items, a bracelet, and a note to accompany his new house guest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The note would have to wait, apparently warmth and shelter was not good enough for the baby. Desperate cries were growing louder, and small arms had found their way out of the makeshift blanket to wave pointedly at Mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanna eat? Is that it?” He asked cautiously, but expected no reply. His phone was tantalizingly within his reach, but the loud screech of a hungry infant brought him back to his task. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The powdered formula packet that was so generously gifted to him was a bitch to open. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’d think they’d make this easier if you’re trying to keep something alive. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mark ended up spilling a good quarter of the contents around the bottle, but there was enough inside to mix with water and nuke for what his Alexa said was an appropriate amount of time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hands in the air.” He chuckled, gently pushing away the infant’s outstretched arms. His humor died in his throat when the bottle was rejected, and the crying continued. He fiddled with the bottle some more, but was still turned away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely doesn’t want to eat</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Might be a diaper change,” he muttered to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Swiping the travel package of diapers, Mark would have to resort to a different method of appeasement. His second guess was (thankfully) correct, and as he swapped out the damp diaper for a fresh one, he made a quiet ‘Huh’, noticing that his new charge was a baby boy. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay,” he repeated hastily, trying to soothe the boy. “Just...swap this out...get it to fit well…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no tears as of yet, but Mark didn’t have any real parental experience, that would fall into a category in which he had no expertise. There was mercy for him today, and when he settled the clean infant against him once more, Mark was rewarded slowly with silence. “Fussy baby no more, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one problem fixed, Mark could now pacify the baby in his arms and finally call the proper authorities. His phone kept slipping down in his hand as it rang, his nerves getting the better of him. How was he going to explain this? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, officer, someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>did </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave a random baby on my porch in a horrendous storm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>God that sounded fake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He explained it the best he could, with his hands growing more sweaty by the second. The officer was the emotionless rock he needed, telling him what was going to happen and asking plenty of questions, in spite of Mark’s lack of answers. After a few dozen transfers to a few random departments, someone was able to give him the number for child services. He had rounded the bend for the growing problem, and while balancing a child on one shoulder and his phone on the other, he scribbled down the series of numbers with a faded ink pen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, before he could jump the next hurdle, the crying was back, and right in his ear. “I think you’re hungry, are you hungry?” Another long whine followed, this time with the boy threatening to wiggle out of his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, the formula had gone cold, and Mark rocked the boy patiently while watching the bottle spin around and around on the glass plate. The small head was nestled in the crook of his elbow, and he was little enough that Mark could rest him comfortably on his forearm while they waited. The motion was all in his arms anyways, using the muscles there to function like a rocker, while keeping the movement in his hips to a minimum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The temperature of the formula felt fine against his wrist, but the boy vehemently rejected the bottle, squirming away from it and scrunching up his face. Mark put it aside to rock the boy some more, but the screams persisted and grew louder by the second. “It’s too hot,” he muttered, readjusting the baby, “It’s too hot, he says.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, by the time the little harpy had settled, the bottle was barely above room temperature. He was desperate to stop the weak cries that were now becoming frantic, his headache couldn’t take much more. Offering up the bottle again, Mark gave a soft sigh as it was eagerly accepted. The boy had his chubby hands tight on the bottle, and was slurping quietly with a serious expression that made Mark smile. He tiptoed over to the couch, where Chica and Henry had already made themselves comfortable. They were more than curious about the baby, and while he was occupied with his meal they took the opportunity to introduce themselves. Henry watched from afar, his ears perked at the little grunts from the child. Chica immediately planted a large kiss on his forehead, prompting a disgruntled look from the poor boy and an immediate shooing from Mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Able to now make his call, he dialed up child services. Someone else would be happy to have this baby, it wasn’t like he wasn’t cute. The big, warm, eyes would make anyone’s heart melt, especially when they were trained at the random stranger and looking at him like he trusted him more than anything. The soft fluff of faded brown hair was surprisingly clean, and begging for a hand to run through the baby-fine locks for an affectionate mussing. Mark thumbed over the teeny tiny mole on the boy’s cheek with his free hand, watching him as he waited for someone to pick up on the other line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The unseen voice that answered did not have good news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ruiner of days and bringer of floods that was the never ending storm was currently taking up all available officers. Mark was having a hard time believing this, an entire city and </span>
  <em>
    <span>every </span>
  </em>
  <span>cop was </span>
  <em>
    <span>busy?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“The best we can do is send someone out late Wednesday morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no. Please no. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was only Monday, Mark couldn’t regain sanity with a screaming child for almost two days. He just couldn’t. But without a car seat, helping hand, or any other options in sight, he was going to have to suck it up. Which sucked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I’ll call back tomorrow to check in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment after the line had gone dead, Mark stared at the wall and let the static play in his head. He questioned whether or not this was happening, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been stuck inside for a while, this could be a boredom induced hallucination brought on by the demonic weather and too many video games. But, there was still the weight of another being in his arms. The squishy bundle still sucking away at the last few sips from the bottle Mark was mindlessly holding. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>C’mon, Mark, you got this. It’s a baby-not a bomb. Oasis! Oasis! Isn’t that what your coach always said?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled away the empty bottle before propping the boy up on his shoulder to burp him. At least, that’s what he thought he should do. A few quick pats and the boy was burping almost as loud as Mark could, earning an appreciative smile from the man himself. “You’re gonna grow big and strong.” He thought for a second. “I gotta be a big strong man and feed myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby remained perched on his shoulder while Mark searched around the kitchen. “Gonna fix myself a delicious, nutritious dinner in the microwave, as champions do.” He mentally thanked Amy for stocking up on frozen meals before leaving as he grabbed a tasty looking fish fillet from the freezer doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling away the plastic film was hard enough with only one hand, but after accomplishing such a task Mark was feeling pretty confident in his single-handed abilities. Being clean and well-fed, the baby boy rested comfortably in the crook of Mark’s neck while they waited for the meal to finish cooking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last and final step for the TV dinner required a delicious helping of tartar sauce, and the container proved to be difficult to open in Mark’s current situation. Skillfully shifting the infant onto his forearm once more, he tried to peel back the lid with his good hand, and hold onto it with his somewhat occupied hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A disastrous muscle twitch sent sauce splattering up Mark’s arm and onto his </span>
  <em>
    <span>black </span>
  </em>
  <span>t-shirt. It really was everywhere. Even on the baby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy didn’t seem to mind, only squinting his eyes at the strange sensation while watching his caretaker scrape tartar sauce off his shirt with a fork. “Don’t look at me like that,” Mark scolded the boy. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>gonna eat this, thank you very much, because I do not have enough to spare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wiped off the remaining mess on the baby with a damp paper towel before heading back into the living room. Resting his meal on the ottoman for a second, he wrapped up the sleepy boy in a warm blanket. The onesie didn’t seem all that warm, and once he’d properly snuggled the boy in the soft fabric, the infant was blissfully asleep on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brief nap lasted long enough for Mark to wolf down his meal and get Amy on the phone because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> had a damn minute to himself and he seriously needed to update her on the situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was just as shocked as he was, asking the same questions he’d been thinking all night. She also made him feel a little bit better, reminding him how strong he was, and how she was only a call away. He reassured her that he’d be fine until she got back Friday, conveniently leaving out the part where he’d gotten tartar sauce on the boy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they’d gotten the concerns and reassurances out of the way, she began asking what the boy looked like, and how he was doing. Mark wasn’t a descriptive man, and gave her some basic details about hair and eyes and etcetera. “How’s he been so far?” Was her next question, and Mark could clearly imagine her making that worried face he’d seen behind the camera hundreds of times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bad, pretty fussy, but you know, uh, getting by-” an unhappy, sharp cry cut off his next few words, “-I think that might be a diaper change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good luck.” He heard the light giggle through the line, and felt a lonely heartstring being plucked in his chest. “I’ll let you go, love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love you too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Mark had gotten his diminishing supplies ready, the crying had grown loud enough to scare off both dogs. “It’s gotta be the diaper,” he muttered, trying to work past the flailing limbs. In his haste, his outstretched arm knocked the fresh diaper off the couch and dropped it to the floor. The precious seconds he wasted sent the boy into an even louder crying fit, and he wondered if his neighbors had already called child services on him. “Okay, okay, okay,” he said, a little louder than necessary as he outfitted the boy in a clean diaper and his onesie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he was plenty worked up, the baby would not be so easily mollified. His crying grated painfully against Mark, cutting deep ribbons into the sensitive pieces of his inner ears and wearing his patience down to a nub. “That wasn’t it, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laid the boy down in his arms to rock him back and forth as wide as could, feeling the bags under his eyes being dragged down with every passing second. However much time had passed, he wasn’t sure. After an uncertain period in which there was no screaming, his lagging brain finally caught up to him. Mark jumped at the idea of putting the little hellspawn down for the night, but where exactly that would be was his next hurdle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t want to sacrifice a dog bed, Chica and Henry were well-behaved, he couldn’t punish them. The couch wasn’t a viable option, who knows if the boy could roll over or not, and Mark had seen enough warnings to know that you weren’t supposed to have babies sleep in your bed. Not like he wanted to, anyways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deciding between a large cardboard box or plastic tub was a decision made difficult by his lack of sleep, and he eventually went with the tub for easy cleanup. Laying down a thick nest of blankets at the bottom, he was sane enough to make sure there was no extra material to suffocate with before laying down the unconscious baby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark kept him within ear shot as he brushed his teeth and finally called it a night. He gave the boy one last check before turning out the lights, just to make sure he was still breathing. He was, and had shoved one of his chubby fists into his mouth. If Mark had any energy left, he might have found it cute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could let himself sleep, he finally took the chance to read the note that had been shoved under the supplies so graciously gifted to him. The handwriting was loopy and scratched, but impressed deep into the notebook paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His name is Ethan, and he is a very active baby. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He is super allergic to peanuts and loves to eat.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I tried to feed him and clean him but I don’t know what to do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I call him “sweeb” sometimes cause its a mix of sweet boy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He likes to chew on my bracelet sometimes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry again. Please tell him I love him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark folded up the note. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He set it down gingerly on the nightstand, feeling an emotional tiredness afflicting him now as well as physical. There was a lack of a birthdate, but he was a pretty little fella. Chewing on his cheek for a moment, he sank down slowly under the covers, rolling over to face his current roommate. His question of “How could someone just abandon their own kid” still wasn’t answered, but he hoped it wouldn’t keep him awake for much longer. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Give an Inch, Lose a Mile</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mark attempts to work around the schedule of a baby. 'Fun' ensues.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mark’s deep, much needed sleep was cut short at three in the morning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Three </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>morning. Needy whines and growing cries dredged his consciousness from the dark corners of his brain, and his body from his warm bed. “Oh my God,” he groaned hoarsely, “oh my God, oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling out of bed, he plucked the snotty mess from the make-shift crib and stumbled towards the kitchen. “Oh baby, oh baby. Oh, what do you need? Food?” His hands fumbled for a packet of formula before he realized the pressing issue. “Nonono, it’s your diaper, it’s the diaper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the articulation in his fingers had left him fumbling as he tried to clean up the boy. “Diaper change, diaper change…” He trailed off, his poor brain trying to focus on putting together those stupid little diaper snaps that were </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>easy to use no matter what the commercials said. “Good baby,” he mumbled deliriously when the infant gave a wide yawn instead of a shrill cry as Mark pressed him against his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, good baby, yeah, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When a needy whimper escaped the boy before they could even leave the kitchen, Mark wanted to take back those words. He wound up slouched on a barstool, thin boxers doing nothing to protect him against the cold metal, and an ungrateful baby in his arms sucking down the microwaved formula that just </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be the right temperature. His hair hung low in his eyes, and he didn’t bother using any of his limited energy to push it aside. Tired eyes stared blankly at the countertop as the soft slurping sounds repeated over and over and over from the boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark could feel the magnetic attraction between his upper and lower eyelids grow until they were nearly closed, and he was nearly pitched from his seat. The baby-</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ethan</span>
  </em>
  <span>-whined at the movement, but latched on even tighter to the bottle, while Mark wallowed in his misery-induced existential crisis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To fight off the impending narcolepsy, Mark wandered in circles around the island, mumbling an occasional “Hush, hush, baby,” to stave off his painful need for sleep. His words became increasingly garbled as he rocked and babbled, only the word ‘baby’ was the one he could most easily say, and he continued to repeat it throughout a yawn that took up his entire face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the bottle was drained, and the whines were at half volume, Mark dumped the boy (gently) back into his bed, and he himself dropped dead on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was woken again around 8, no less tired, but his body didn’t fight as hard to keep him in bed. Diaper change, bottle, lather, rinse repeat. Only, he was getting awfully low on supplies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the police themselves deemed it unsafe to be on the roads, Mark was incredibly screwed. Fashioning together a diaper could be possible, but the kid needed to eat, and he couldn’t even sit up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His delivery service app gave him more bad news, he couldn’t even make it on the schedule by Thursday. Amazon was no better. Shifting the current weight in his arms, Mark began pacing. He had things to do today, important things! His stream needed to be up in a couple hours, not counting the filming for another video, and he had no one nearby to babysit, it wasn’t even his baby!</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay. Focus. No more pity party. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mark fished out his phone, calling up Amy. Ethan squirmed in his arms, letting out a short squeak as he tried to get comfortable. Mark ended up settling them both on the couch, moving the baby up onto his chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Number one thing about babies, lots of couch time, I guess. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Amy picked up on the fourth ring, and he hoped he wasn’t interrupting anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laid out the problem, clear and simple, in hopes of some answers. She suggested walking, but Mark knew they’d drown before they reached the store. “And you tried the grocery app?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about Amazon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are there </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>delivery options you haven’t thought of?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dominos?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mark, c’mon-”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait, holy shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Oh my God, wait, I need to call them.” He listened to the disbelieving laugh on the other line. “I’m serious!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay, you’ll have to let me know how it goes, I’m in the middle of something”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will do”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And send pics!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan was sleeping soundly against him, his cheek smushed against the broad plain of Mark’s chest. His slumber gave Mark the time to pull together his plan, and pray that it worked. A quick photo was taken of the sleeping infant, Amy would love his deceptively cute face</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before his medium pepperoni pizza order was to be delivered, in the ‘special instructions’ box, he laid out his case. He hoped that the overwhelming sympathetic factor of an infant would be convincing enough. Mark didn’t have a backup plan, or backup supplies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His order was going to be a while, and in the meantime, he laid Ethan back down in his make-shift crib while Mark showered and prepped for his filming that day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just a few games, I have to get through at least two, three if I can. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He tried to think optimistically, scrubbing the shampoo out of his hair as quickly as he could. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Editing should be easy enough-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Soft crying reached his ears in between the patter of shower water, and he let a frustrated groan tumble from his throat. Stemming the flow with a jerked motion, he wrapped a towel around his waist and let his wet feet slap against the floor towards the bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no tears from the boy, he was merely red-faced and screaming in defiance of sleep. Crouching down, a quick check told Mark that he didn’t need a diaper change. “You can’t be hungry, what’s your deal? Huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More crying, no answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark grabbed the boy with a weary sigh. He propped him up on his waist, holding his head up to look the devil child in the eyes. They stared back at him unabashedly, quieting suddenly and reaching out towards him with fumbling arms. He arched a dark eyebrow at the boy. “What? You’re all quiet now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Resigning himself to the leech on his hip, Mark carried the baby around with him while he finished up the last of his morning routine, nixing the continuation of his shower. Ethan was more than happy to watch him, holding tight to the man and cooing nonstop. His legs kicked out randomly, and he seemed to have endless energy to chatter at Mark, remaining vigilant, and much to Mark’s thinning patience, awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eleven o’clock was creeping around the corner when he had thrown on a decent-ish shirt and had the delivery girl pounding on the door. He had planned on wearing something presentable, but then a spiteful baby spit up on it. So, not looking his best and carrying a squirming baby, Mark answered to the knocking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The delivery kid was </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>seventeen at best, and was already jogging back to her car after dropping off Mark’s order on the stoop. “I like your baby!” She shouted, waving at him cheerfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m babysitting!” He yelled back, refusing to play ‘parent’ to what was clearly Satan's child. He’d already paid beforehand for the pizza, and the extra cash for the diapers, wipes, and formula had been left on the step, with a tip, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dragging everything in, he grabbed a slice of pizza for himself (because </span>
  <em>
    <span>dammit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d earned it!) and ignored his trainer’s voice yelling in his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan gave a short, petulant squeak at his inattentiveness, batting at Mark’s large head with a chubby arm. “God, what am I going to do with you?” He muttered, watching all his free time disappear in Ethan’s wide eyes. “I thought babies were supposed to, like, sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held up the traitor at eye level, scowling at the smile on his supposedly angelic face. “I am going to wear you out, you got that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sweet coo bubbled up from the boy, deepening Mark's frown. “I’m serious. I’m gonna wear you out, and you’re gonna sleep, and then I’m gonna get some work done.” Ethan was brought even closer, his forehead resting against Mark, and he giggled at the sensation. “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>completely </span>
  </em>
  <span>serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He used everything Google said babies would like. Stuff that rattled, balloons, stupid music, anything. Literally anything. Mark was desperate. He dangled the least disgusting dog toy he could find over the boy, letting him grab for it weakly with rapt attention. It had been a solid hour of this, trying to keep Ethan’s attention long enough to wear him out, with a short pizza break for Mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The delighted ‘O’ on Ethan’s face deformed into a scrunched up expression of unhappiness, ending their playtime. Whines, sharp and sudden, spilled from the once happy baby and Mark plucked him from the floor with resounding frustration. His needs were obvious by the way he immediately began slobbering on Mark’s shirt. “You just don’t stop eating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His bounty of formula was used for a fresh bottle, at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>exact </span>
  </em>
  <span>temperature, Mark didn’t need any more screaming. Especially since this might be his moment to put the kid down for a few hours. He made himself, and the baby, as comfortable as possible. A fuzzy blanket was draped around the pair, swathing the baby in warmth. Mark snuggled him firmly against his chest, letting the boy ‘hold up’ the bottle while he drank hungrily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark had to remind himself to stay awake, the reclined position and snuggly furnace was making it hard to keep his eyes open. The poor night's sleep didn’t help either, and Mark fought it as long as he could. Ethan couldn’t do the same, soon enough his long eyelashes were dusting his cheeks, his arms falling to curl against his chest. His even breathing was interrupted by the occasional snuffle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not even quiet when he’s sleeping. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mark pulled away the bottle, the boy didn’t stir. Mark cradled him like a sleeping bomb, moving on the balls of his feet and avoiding any extraneous movement. </span>
  <em>
    <span>10 feet, 7 feet, 5 feet….</span>
  </em>
  <span> His bedroom suddenly seemed so far away, and every step was a complicated process of attempted fluid movement without jostling the baby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he moved painfully slow around any tripping hazard on his floor, Mark left the lights dim in order to create a cozy atmosphere in order to keep the little maniac asleep for as long as possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The maroon hoodie was still laid out in his crib, a familiar object for the infant. Mark brushed away the hoodie strings before gingerly settling Ethan in the crib. Dead to the world, he let his limp arms flop from his sides and stretch out in the bed of blankets, a tiny sigh escaping him as he accepted his new resting place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark had his eyes trained on the boy as he inched his way from the room, watching for any possible signs of movement. When the carpet turned to hardwood, he left the door open a crack before heading towards the computer, allowing himself to breathe finally, after holding it in for the last few minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His freedom was in his hands, his empty, empty, hands. He still had to work, but now he could do so without carrying around Satan’s spawn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark had almost forgotten how lovely it was to just sit down and </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>what he was getting into. Three new horror games waited for him patiently and quietly, their instructions all laid out before his eyes. There was order to them, there were rules, they made </span>
  <em>
    <span>sense</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not like a squawling infant, oh no. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Opting for ear buds, he left one dangling by his side, keeping his ears keened for any noise elsewhere in his home. With his capture, webcam, and game up and running, Mark was in his element. “Hello everyone, my name is Markiplier and welcome back…”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>He watched the loading screen struggle for the third minute in a row before noticing the scratchy cries struggling to be heard from down the hall. “Oh no,” he mumbled, disconnecting himself from his setup and hurrying towards the noise. “Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>no.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark had been testing his luck with a third game anyways, he already had the raw footage for the first two, and his wifi was running raggedly slow in the weather. He was shamefully aware that he had no idea how long the kid had been crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flicking on the lights, they spotlighted the cherry red face contorted in pure negativity writhing around in the tub. His fists were balled up tight, and his back was arched with the force of his crying. “Hey buddy, hey, hey, it’s okay, you're okay,” Mark soothed, bringing the boy to his chest. Ethan sucked in a ragged gulp of air before releasing another scream, his face scrunched up tight and looking up at Mark with betrayal. “I’m sorry buddy, I know, I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark carried him towards the kitchen, cleaning him up and offering him a bottle. It was rejected in a wild frenzy, fat tears now accompanying the fit consuming the poor baby. It served to add to the towering pile of guilt Mark was feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mingling in with the screaming comes his phone, chiming away. And in the moment he reads the name on the screen, he knows he’s fucked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Social Services, kindly checking in on his situation. </span>
  <span>He has to answer. Goddammit, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” He has to shout over the noise, and his voice wavers as he rocks the squawking bundle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this Mark Fischbach?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes-” Mark readjusts the baby, trying to remain pleasant, “-This is him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes on to verify his identity- </span>
  <em>
    <span>who else in his area had received an unwanted visit from the fucking stork?</span>
  </em>
  <span>-and answers the assessment questions for his situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is repeated twice, question and answer, because the screaming has yet to dampen. Scratchy wails shred his eardrums and whittle his patience to a nub. The unseen voice doesn’t mention it, but there’s no way she doesn’t hear the fit. And yet when he desperately asks if any officers are freed up, she gives him the same answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wednesday </span>
  <em>
    <span>afternoon, </span>
  </em>
  <span>apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hanging up is easy, because the high volume has turned into a sobbing fit. He whispered soothingly to him as he tucked the boy into the curve of his neck, resting his jaw lightly against the soft skin of his forehead. “It’s okay, yeah, I know, it’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers caressing the small frame worked back and forth in stroking motions, listening to the weak sobs wrack against his chest. He was curled so tight against Mark, squished against him and pouring tears onto his shirt. Ethan cried harder when Mark dared to move, even if it was to get comfortable on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cool leather was difficult to find comfort in, but Mark bundled himself and the baby up tight in a blanket. He propped up his head with a pillow, letting the flat plain of his ribs support the weeping infant. Fully reclined, it seemed to relax Ethan a smidge, bringing him down to a whimper. His hands bunched up the loose material of Mark’s shirt, and from his spot he stared up at Mark with eyes highlighted by red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lower lip stuck out dramatically, and a trail of snot accompanied it. However, he was quieting slowly, accepting that Mark was there, and he was with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They listened to the heavy patter of the rain against the window, both succumbing to the growing warmth of the thick blanket and quiet atmosphere of the house. Mark’s sheer will and pressing reminder of his work kept him painfully awake, waiting for the moment where he could once again lay the boy down for some much needed rest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That moment would have to wait. When Mark dared to stand from the couch, his movement was accompanied by a harsh whine and a string of babbled cries. Ethan had shifted his head to look up at Mark again, eyes big and watery. He blinked when Mark ran a calloused hand over his head, smoothing down the baby-fine hair. “Quit lookin’ at me with them big ol’ eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Blink blink</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d known for a while he didn’t want kids. Not that he didn’t like them, but he had other things to do. A kid would take up his whole life, it would </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be the center of everything. Mark would have to give up everything he worked for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could see the appeal, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan didn’t seem like he was going to sleep for now, so Mark treated him to a field trip into his storage room. Juggling the baby in one arm while he searched, he dug through the shelves of clutter looking for something he remembered seeing sometime in the last few weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was buried behind a few packages and a mini crossbow. “If you’re good, maybe we can play with that later.” That’s an empty promise, he’d been stuck with the kid for two days, no way was he going to behave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit back down on the couch, his dogs already curious as to what he has. Ethan is propped up in his lap, head leaned back against his diaphragm. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>ta-da! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mark has bubbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cheap, and sticky, he waved the wand in the air and let them float around before Chica inevitably pops them. Ethan waved his arms around at the sight, jostling himself with the effort and emitting an excited shriek. His other dog keeps a safe distance from the strange activity, peeking around the furniture like a soldier in a trench.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark found himself smiling along. He chuckled at the noise, grateful for the improved mood. “Yep,” he brags, petting Ethan’s hair with his thumb, “I got da bubbles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One landed on the wand, and he brought it closer to him. Without hesitation, his chubby arm smacked into it and popped it. There’s an immediate ‘O’ on his face, lolling his head back at Mark with big eyes as if saying ‘Did you see that?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh it’s okay.” Another round of bubbles get sent into the air. “See? There’s more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They play until dinner, and this time, Mark prepared. A few mommy blogs and a Wiki page later, he’s got a whole play area set up in his living room. A blanket is spread out on the floor, surrounded by dog toys, a plastic cup, and an old TV remote. An infant’s paradise. He plopped Ethan down on his stomach amongst it all, and satisfied that he wasn’t going anywhere, Mark headed off into the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep an eye on things!” He tells Chica, who lingers around the invading baby and snatches a toy back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Able to make a proper dinner, it’s cooked with smooth execution and seasoned well. He leaves out anything with nuts, but it’s not an issue. Ethan’s preoccupied himself with the cup while he works, and over the sound of the microwave he can hear the little babbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He padded back to him with a plate in hand, able to finish his dinner with a little TV in the background. Mark still had to eat quickly, it’s like the little time thief can sense he’s relaxed. He plucked the squishy infant from his blanket when he fusses, popping a bottle into his mouth and settling him back. They catch up on the news while the bottle is finished, reminding Mark that he also has work he should be doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there’s a literal problem weighing on his chest. He’s pacified, and quiet, and still not sleeping. Thankfully, Shannon Kersch from ‘MamaBearBlogs’ had his answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an old bed sheet and an instructional video, Mark fashions a sling around himself to keep the kid close and quiet. Settling him upright and secure, he’s got the baby snugly against him while he taps away at his computer. There’s piano music playing in the background, something specifically recommended for infants. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even Youtube knows I’m babysitting. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan makes quiet noises while sucking on his fist, kicking his legs every so often to remind Mark that he’s still here, and still awake. He pauses midway through editing, looking down with a thoughtfully curious expression. “You know how to edit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bah!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sends a quick selfie to Amy before getting back to work. Some raw footage is sent over to an editing buddy, but he gets as much done as he can. Almost three days of futile work and he can’t even explain himself. Technically, he’s also not supposed to take photos with the kid either...but it’s Amy. He loves her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, there’s another bout of whining, another diaper change, and by the time he’s got Ethan in his crib, Mark’s pretty tired himself. He knows he’ll have to get up at some time in the night, might as well turn in early and try to sleep till then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No dreams accompany him, but he’s not alone. Lying on his back, staring up at the stucco ceiling, he listens to the repetitive snores from the crib. He wonders if Ethan dreams.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. It Was Always to End Like This</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's Mark and Ethan's last day together. Mark's not one for big goodbyes.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They’re both lackluster the next day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan was up at least three times, and Mark blames the thunder. It picked up again last night, mostly to spite him and his sleep schedule.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got Ethan strapped to his chest while he groggily picks out an outfit and tries to make a decent breakfast. Something with lots of protein, and fried on a low heat for maximum flavor. Before he can think about grabbing pans, he remembers that the weight in the sling is a fragile human being susceptible to many things, including but not limited to hot grease sizzling in a pan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark settles for cereal. He raises slow spoonfuls to his mouth, dodging the inept arms of a needy infant. Ethan had already had his breakfast first, it was his turn. It didn’t stop the baby from whining at the food, guilting him for trying to enjoy the most important meal of the day. The whines get louder, his wiggling more urgent to remind Mark of the step he skipped after his bottle. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right, my breakfast is over. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Soon enough he’ll be free. He has streams to catch up on, editing to finish, and games to play. He wants to get back to his life, he doesn’t want a baby to care for. It’s not even ten and he’s already pacing. Ethan’s shifted up onto his shoulder, riding out the back and forth motions with him while he pats his back to soothe his stomach troubles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why am I so nervous?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s pent up, that’s it. He hasn’t been able to properly work out in days, he’s been stuck in the house alone, he’s struggling. Anyone would be stressed, he’s human, afterall. But he has work to do, he can’t just drop everything. He has bills to pay, and games to play. Social services should be at his door in a couple hours, but he’s already losing his grip on the last few sane threads of his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan whines in his ear, sharp and demanding. The pacing may have gotten a little aggressive. Adjusting him so that he’s against his chest and staring up at him, that seems to have distracted him from the fussing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whassamatter, uh….champ?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lolls his head back into the hand that supports his neck, patting him with his little hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, that’s Mark. Whatcha want, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More nonsense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since Mark’s made an effort to clean up, he decides Ethan should too. While the onesie rides out a washing with a load of towels, his countertop becomes the center for an infant sponge bath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scrubs the grime off with the softest washcloth he has (he’s not a </span>
  <span>monster</span>
  <span>). It’d be easier if he were older and Mark could toss him in the sink, like in his own childhood. But, he can barely roll over on his own, much less hold his head above water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Racing against the clock, he tries to be gentle, he really does. From the screeching, his neighbors probably assumed he was using a cheese grater. Everyone involved wants it to be over, but it is a baby after all. Babies are gross. He’s using dish soap, and even then he has to go over the tougher spots a few times. This probably should have been done yesterday, but yesterday they were a couple of shut-ins, and now he’s got Social Services due today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His reward for being thorough is getting pissed on. A full stream, aimed at his chest, has him cursing and diving for cover. Mark scrambles for a diaper, or a towel, basically anything to stem the flow. By the time he’s found something, it’s over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As short lived as it was, they’re both covered in piss, and Ethan needs another washcloth bath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Great.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Fighting him has at least zapped the kid of his energy, and while he naps in his ‘play area’, Mark does his chores around the house. General picking up and cleaning up after the baby. That’s all he ever does lately, clean up after Lucifer’s child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does as much as he can, but lack of sleep limits his productivity. Dishes no longer inhabit the sink, and the trash is collected in the big bins in the garage, and he knows there’s more to do. But, he hears the tell-tale sound of a wakeful infant, and he winds up on his stomach facing Ethan. He’s been able to get his head up and look around the room. Those big eyes clumsily trace over every object around him before landing on Mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He coos, kicking his legs out and twitching. Mark props his chin up with his hands, lazily raising an eyebrow. “What?” He asks boredly. “You gonna go back to sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clipped shriek is a resounding ‘no’. However, he seems pretty entertained with making noise and slobbering on anything that fits in his hands. Mark officially concedes that, yes, he is cute. Big cheeks, shiny eyes, innocence all around. That’s cute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most babies honestly just all look the same to him. Aside from drastic details, there’s really no personality or looks to them when they’re this little and squishy. He couldn’t pick the kid out of a line-up, not that he’d ever have to. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks,</span>
  <em>
    <span> maybe in the future. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If he grows up to steal wallets, that’s not Mark’s fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> No thievery just yet, aside from time. The kid doesn’t even have kneecaps yet, or teeth. “You’re weird,” he says, thumbing back the mussed up hair. Ethan coos, his mouth forming a little ‘O’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s clean, well-fed, entertained, and definitely spoiled. All babies are in some way or another, Mark thinks. They need all that attention, and someone capable of giving it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Seems like mom and dad couldn’t hold up their end of the deal. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For a while, he forgets his life around him as he watches the baby. Sprawled out on the floor, listening to the rain and only thinking about what he’s having for lunch. The blanket has a misshapen polka dot pattern, and Ethan likes the blue dots the best. Mark wonders if babies can see color. It's a bit dull for their last day, but considering Ethan was an unwelcome houseguest, Mark doesn't expend the energy to think of any big plans. He just enjoys the quiet moment between him and the little thing that's going to grow up and be a real person. And <em>wow, </em>is that a weird concept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reality steps back in when the doorbell rings, bringing forth a flurry of activity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to contain the dogs and he has to pick up the baby because he’s little and probably easy to step on. Mark has to invite the officers inside and ask if they want coffee, and, well, he doesn’t have any made right now but he’s nervous and wants to be polite. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit him down at the table, inspecting the evidence of Ethan’s arrival. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Letter, plastic bag, hoodie, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s all jotted down onto a notepad and tucked away in plastic bags. He gives his story-er...testimony, or whatever while rocking Ethan to keep him pacified. Then they talk about the weather. Complaints are traded back and forth, and the shorter officer who stands by the window speaks with a bland monotone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not even that much rain.” He scratches at the stiff collar. “Ground’s just too dry to soak it up, s’all runnin’ off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark gives a politely uninteresting reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives them everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even Ethan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethan doesn’t cry when they take him and load him up into the dinged up car seat. He’s sleeping through the whole thing, and it makes Mark feel a little better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They shake his hand and thank him. He’s staring past them and out at the police car. They don’t specifically say he can’t say goodbye, but the taller officer has cornered him in the doorway while they load up the baby. He’s told to call if anyone contacts him about Ethan. They say thank you, but it sounds like noise. But it’s the only noise around him because suddenly, things are quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His house is quiet now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the evidence had been collected. No more diapers, no more bottles, no more baby. The makeshift crib is dismantled, the blankets are thrown in the wash, and the tub is put back on a shelf. For all the space Ethan had seemed to take up in his life, everything was put away rather quickly. Back in his bedroom, as he tucks in the sheets to make the bed, he sees more evidence that had fallen under the nightstand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a bracelet. A faux leather strip studded with a design on one side with a cheap metal clasp to bring it together. There's discoloration on the material, from Ethan chewing on it no doubt. If he’d remembered its existence, it would be sitting in a plastic bag and riding away in a police car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back pushed against the bed frame, he sits on the floor with one hand on the bracelet and the other on his dog. He traces the swirly patterns indented in the leather with his thumb, just thinking.</span>
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  <span>He doesn’t want kids. If anything, this has solidified this for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’ll remember this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll remember those big eyes, and screechy voice. He’ll remember the little tuxedo onesie and annoying energy. How Ethan liked to grab onto his shirt and stare upwards like he was climbing a mountain, always staring at Mark.</span>
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  <span>Maybe he’ll even miss it.</span>
</p><p>
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